99% of New South Wales has been declared drought affected. I would like to know where the unaffected 1% is. Is there a snobby little cloud that chooses to rain exclusively upon this 1%? And beneath that cloud, is there a bunch of people in a big swimming pool, surrounded by lush green gardens and fountains, laughing it up while the rest of the state dries up?
Out in the sticks last weekend, the sheep looked like shrivelled prunes on legs. Just bones and rumpled wool wandering around the bare paddocks. The heat was unbearably dry, the kind that fires up your skin like a hotplate; you keep waiting for it to just crack and fall off.
Meanwhile, I see Mr and Mrs Joe Fuckwit wasting water out in the suburbs. Drowning the geraniums in the middle of the afternoon, plonking soaker hoses down on the turf. I drive past and wind down my window to boo and hiss. I want to string them up in the trees and smack them with a spiky sprinkler head until they see sense.
We had a huge dust storm here in Canberra a couple of weeks ago. All the precious public servant 4WD’s were speckled red, the queues at the car wash stretched out onto the street. A friend of mine saw his neighbour standing on her roof in the middle of the day, hosing the dust off the Colourbond! Why the hell do you think we had a dust storm in the first place?
In the drought of 1983, our water tank ran dry. I discovered it was possible to bathe, water a flock of sheep and do three loads of laundry on just one thimble full of water. Ever since then, I go bezerk at the sight of a dripping tap or a midday sprinkler. I know it’s easy to forget in urban areas that cows are roasting alive and the earth is cracking up out in the country. But come on people, as the Mothership would say, “Use your brain!”